


Your Song

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception, Christmas, Eventual Smut, M/M, Prison Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a shameless whore and Eames is fresh meat.<br/>I love you Philip Morris + Orange Is The New Black ending in Christmas time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Song

**Author's Note:**

> Written to [this soundtrack.](http://8tracks.com/cerulean_ear/you-make-me-feel-so-zany)

 

 

The first day he walks down the corridor, Arthur sizes him up pretty quick. 

Bad posture, broad shoulders, sharp brows. The tattoos and beard don’t fool him; he’s one of the mushy ones. None of the screaming idiots notice; they’re too busy emanating fake macho crazy-ape bullshit along with their spittle. But who cares what they think? The sight of him makes Arthur's cock twitch; that doesn't happen very often.

 ❅

Next day at the yard, the guy stands hunched against the far wall squinting, riding out the customary initiation cruise.

Perched on a table with his feet on the seat, Arthur pretends to read the library’s old copy of _Walden_ ; Arthur’s caught him looking in his direction at least 3 times before Gilheum moves in with his crew. They surround him, and all Arthur can see of him is the wispy brown hair blowing in the wind and the tips of his white standard-issue sneakers, firm and unshifting. 

Arthur watches on as they exchange the usual psychological chin-checks with each other, trading the various coded grumblings for How Wise Can You Act? and waits patiently for them to clear away. Arthur can tell he’s not the type for gangs and packs; he’s a lone wolf, a neutral ground, a lonely mountain. Sure enough, they are gone in a minute without too much trouble.

“Guilheum’s an idiot,” Arthur says, and he loves the way the guy looks anywhere but at Arthur as Arthur walks up to him. “He’s just scouting for a mule. I can tell you’re not the type.” Arthur leans against the wall next to him, crosses his arms the way he has his. Damn, his arms are big. His voice is raspy when he speaks.

“And how would you know anything about me?” With that, he gives Arthur a quick glance; Arthur doesn’t hold back from smiling. He knows his dimples are one of a kind.

“I just do. Get a feeling, you know."

Man seems taken aback; he looks younger when he’s surprised. Arthur savours leaving an impression on his extremely fuckable face.

“…You a fag?” he says, in his equally fuckable British voice. Arthur doesn’t miss a beat.

“Am I one or do I have one?” 

It makes the mouth under the beard smile, even if it’s just twitch; he must like smart lip. Arthur beams back. Arthur’s got him. Arthur holds out his hand.

“Arthur."

He stares at Arthur like he’s crazy, but takes it anyway. His hand is soft and dry, like the feel of earth on a spring day.

“Alright, Arthur.” A note of amusement tints his voice. Arthur could come to those two words.

"So, what do I call you?” Arthur makes a point to look into his eyes as he asks. Men have been known to drown in the chocolate swirl of his eyes.

He glares at Arthur, and his sun-drenched face is almost papery in its limpid stillness. His eyes are a washed-out grey-blue in this light. Arthur feels his heart flutter.

“…Eames,” he says, finally. “That’s what you can call me."

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Eames.” Hope I can blow you some time soon.

The buzzer goes off, telling them to get the fuck back inside.

Arthur doesn’t stop grinning all day.

Eames. That’s what Arthur can call him.

The moon rises and the sun sets while Arthur thinks about him.

 ❅ 

He’s in B block, so Arthur pays Jones to get him transferred to his own. There's nothing to do when Eames works out, which he does a lot of, so Arthur watches _America's News HQ_ and thinks of stuff to say to him later. They see each other at meals, but don’t sit together. Arthur pays McBryan to let him know when Eames goes to shower. He takes it twice a day, and is very particular about keeping his beard in shape. You could never tell by the way it looks; Arthur finds that a little too charming to bear.

  ❅

Eames must have been paying attention to Arthur, too, because he starts showing up at the library. 

Mostly he just stands around squinting at the criminal law titles while Arthur picks out the most sophisticated-looking paperbacks in the section opposite.

On his fourth visit, he kind of hovers over the desk Arthur’s reading at. 

“You interested in post-world-war 2 modern classical literature?” Arthur asks, eyes still on the page.

“Hmm?” Eames hums, obviously caught off-guard, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets. Arthur wants to suck his face. Instead, he holds up his copy of Franny and Zooey. Eames looks like a deer caught in the headlight.

“You might wanna read something if you’re gonna keep coming around.” Arthur whispers with a smile in his eyes.

Eames just looks at him. Arthur wonders for a moment if he’s just messed everything up. Then Eames turns around, marches to the civil law section and picks up the thickest volume he can find. When he thumps it down in front of Arthur, Jackson at the check out desk shoots him a look. Eames glares him down. Arthur has to hold himself back from shivering, at that.

Eames sits down, and one of his feet grazes Arthur’s. Arthur pretends not to notice. Eames leaves it there.

“I fucking hate reading,” Eames mutters, as he flips open the severe-looking cover like it’s laced with poison. Arthur lets out a laugh under his breath. Time to come clean.

“I’m dyslexic,” he confesses, with the sun-shiniest smile Eames has probably ever seen. Eames blinks. Something like awe in his eyes. Then he lets out a quiet, “Huh,” and gets to co-fake-reading. 

It’s nice, not having to talk; if they could talk, Arthur would probably ask him things like where in England he was from, how he ended up here, and what each of his tattoos meant. Most guys loved being asked about their tattoos. Got all sappy and shit. But it was nice, not having to talk.

Besides, Arthur felt like he already knew everything that mattered to know about Eames. And he decided to think that Eames felt a similar way about him, too, because flicking the third page he was so focusedly not reading, Eames casually shifted on his bench and touched his knee to Arthur’s. Arthur successfully swallowed the breath that hitched in his chest and pressed back, firmly, and glanced up just in time to see the corners of Eames' mouth flickering up.

  ❅

“Hey, Williams,” hissed Barrymore, doing the night round.

Arthur raised his head from the pillow, and saw something shiny fly through the bars and land on the ground. He hadn’t made any orders.

“That’s from the british twat,” Barrymore said, and walked off.

Arthur got out of bed and picked it up. The red and blue of Twinkies glistened in the dark. 

Suddenly Arthur heard a bustle, and turned to see Jones lying wide-eyed, staring at the bars with desire. 

“I’ll break your fucking face if you touch this,” Arthur stated cooly, and climbed back into bed with it carefully tucked into chest. He was never going to eat it. 

  ❅

The next day is visiting day and Cobb comes with a blanketful of muffins. 

“How’re you holding up? Your mother asked me to give this to you. She couldn’t come because of the neighbourhood coalition meeting.”

As Arthur takes one and bites into it, he catches Eames’ eye across the tables and crinkles the corners of his eyes to show him, don’t worry, I'm all about your twinkies. But Eames just stares at him, and stares at Cobb, and when the round-shaped man with a shock of curly hair and a dodgy dress sense sitting in front of him protests, reluctantly goes back to listening to him.

“How’s Mal?” Arthur asks, mouth stuffed full of blueberry baked goodness. Cobb seems to falter a little.

“Ah, you know. Two kids are not easy to care for… She misses work.” Arthur swears there’s a healing bruise on Cobb’s forehead, but thinks better than to mention it.

“Anyway… She wanted me to ask you if there’s anything uncomfortable going on here, you know, since the last time she spoke to you; I told her you’d be fine, but you know how she is.” Cobb smiled tightly.

Feeling sorry for him, Arthur none the less loved Mal for being who she was. After all, if it weren’t for her connections to the warden, Arthur would have been some sweaty-pitted maniac’s bitch from day one. He would never say it, but Arthur had always thought Cobb married up.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually.” Arthur glanced at Eames, licking his fingers. 

Cobb followed his eyes, then looked back at Arthur with a face that told Arthur he was trying very hard not to judge. He failed.

“…Really? That guy?” 

“What, what’s wrong with him?” Arthur said, his voice sharpening.

“He just seems so…” Cobb hesitated. “…Criminal."

Arthur gawked at him. 

“Are you fucking serious right now?"

“Hey, I just mean— Whatever. It’s not like you’re gonna listen to me.” He seems just a little bit sad as he rubs at his eyes.

“…What, you not getting enough sleep or something?” Arthur asks, still a little angry, taking another muffin. Mm. Banana Bread.

“Yeah, I just…” Cobb sighed, head drooping. Then he looked up from under his brow, pressing at his temples. “We just found out we’re pregnant. Again.” 

Arthur forgets to chew. He puts down the muffin.

“Fuck me."

“Yep,” agrees Cobb, “exactly."

“Well…” Arthur struggled to find the words. "Congrats, I guess?"

Cobb looks like he wants to cry. Arthur hands him a muffin. Cobb stares at it like it’s a foetus growing in his wife’s womb.

Arthur stares, too, munching, awkward, until the buzzer goes off. He should probably send a card.

“I really wish I could sleep over here sometimes,” Cobb whispers, as they hug goodbye. Maybe not.

 ❅

“Who was the bloke you were with earlier?” Eames asks, as they browse the poetry aisle together. 

It takes Arthur a moment to realise what he’s talking about.

“You mean Cobb?"

“Cobb?” Eames snorts, and Arthur admires how well-kempt his nose hair is. “What sort of a man’s called Cobb?”  

“…An ex-colleague kind. Why do you ask?” 

Mouth pursed, Eames stares intently at the Oxford Book of English Verse, nostrils flaring ever so slightly.

Suddenly it hits Arthur. 

“We just worked together,” Arthur says, straight-faced and very clearly. "He’s a good guy. And married.” 

Nostrils still open, Eames turns his head and stares at him. His pupils are very dark. Arthur wants to touch the bristle on his neck.

“It’s not like we banged, or anything.” There was that one night, but Arthur had been really drunk and Mal had kicked Cobb out.

It’s like Eames can read his mind, because as soon as Arthur says it, Eames’ eyelids twitch, his whole body tenses up, and he stalks out of there, rattling the bookshelves with his footsteps along the way.

Shit, Arthur thinks, it was just once, goddammit. And hand jobs didn’t count. Ari said so. She had a degree.

  ❅

Arthur is so pissed off at Eames for being pissed off that he doesn’t really notice Christmas rolling around until it’s actually the day before, and cards arrive from his family and from Mal & Cobb. He wonders if Ari’s forgotten, but she gives him a call later in the day telling him how she’s in Japan on a teaching placement and she’s met this ridiculously rich guy who’s fallen head over heels with her. From the sound of it, she’s pretty enthusiastic herself.

“’S he a mob boss?” Arthur demands, suspicious.

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, he dresses like a Yakuza, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t. Never say never, though, right?” she says over the crackle of static, cheerful as ever. 

 ❅ 

For the rest of the day, Arthur receives 7 cigarettes, 3 candy bars, 2 stamps, 4 bars of soap and a toothpaste. He doesn’t even have to trade. But he can’t appreciate them the way he should, because Eames ignores him in the day room and the yard and in the canteen. 

Arthur can’t tell if he’s more frustrated or horny when they are woken up on Christmas day, a little later than usual. Nealson shows off the card he got from his daughter, and Arthur just wants to punch him in the face.

Even when they all sit down for the Christmas dinner, burly men twinkling like children on a picnic, all Arthur can think about is how can I get him to talk to me again? And I want to pour this gravy down his abs.

He’s still sulking as he trudges with the rest of the guys to the day room again after the meal for Christmas Recreation. They did this crap every year, and every year it’s hilariously bad. Arthur usually enjoyed himself, but he just wants to fuck or beat the shit out of someone tonight.

  ❅

He’s trying to settle into a position where he’s touching as little of Perspiration Percy as possible when he hears a familiar voice on the mic. 

“This one is for someone quite special in my heart,” it says, wavering a little. Arthur’s head shoots up. “Alright, Archie, hit it."

Eames stands in the middle of the room, grabbing the mic stand that looks ridiculously frail in his grip. 

Arthur struggles to believe that this is really happening as Archie plays the bars entering the song on the unstable electronic keyboard donated to them last year from the local elementary school.

He’s never had an ear for music, so it takes him a while, but when Eames starts singing Arthur recognises the song and he’s pretty sure he’s going to die.

“It’s a little bit funny… This feeling inside...I’m not one of those who can easily hide…” Eames croons into the mic, and frankly, he is terrible.

But Arthur hears sniffling and overwhelmed sighs around the room by the time Eames is half way through, and they actually clap like they mean it when the song’s over. Arthur can’t really react except sit there trying not to pass out. 

“Thank you very much,” Eames mumbles, and looks at Arthur before leaving the space he’s just somehow turned into a stage. 

Arthur is too blown out to think or move until Bernas comes up next with an accordion hanging from his neck, but he gets out in time to catch Eames turning the corner at the end of the corridor.

Arthur follows him into the showers.

“Eames, wait, that---"

As soon as he passes through the door, something grabs him, and his mouth is being attacked by a hot, stubbly mess of skin and tongue and breath and Arthur just lets it go.

They somehow stumble over each other into the stall furthest from the door and god, Eames tastes so fucking good in his mouth, and he’s just as hot and hard and crazy _everywhere_ as Arthur’s imagined, and when they’ve peeled off enough layers - mostly off Arthur - and grab each other’s dicks Arthur’s pleased to find that it’s just the right size; Arthur wants to suck him but Eames doesn’t let him and with a few strokes against Arthur’s palm he’s ready to come in, so Arthur sucks on Eames' fingers and puts it between his ass and feels the shiver go down his spine at the sight of Eames closing his eyes and exhale through his nose like just touching him there is too much. Arthur fucks himself on those fingers until he’s practically dripping with pre-come and when Eames finally does push in, eyes bleary and holding Arthur’s knee against the cold tile like a rock, Arthur nearly comes solely at the sound Eames makes. They fuck and fuck and fuck and _fuck_ everything fits so fucking perfectly and Arthur can’t stop himself from letting out a helpless, stilted shout when he comes with stars behind his eyes at the same time as Eames does, teeth buried in Arthur’s neck and arms so tight around Arthur’s body Arthur thinks he might be crushed, and that would be okay.

  ❅

There’s a group singing going on of Deck the Halls from down the hall when they wipe the come off of each other.

Eames is thorough and clumsy at the same time and Arthur almost gets hard again. 

“You have a terrible singing voice,” he breathes, as Eames hands him his pants, the cuffs wet.

Eames kind of freezes at that, and Arthur thinks oh crap, here we go again, but then Eames just says, “How dare you. I used to be in a band."

“Were you the drummer?” asks Arthur, genuinely astonished. Eames crosses his arms, and considers Arthur as pulls his shirt back on over his head.

“I had no idea you were such an arse until just now. Are you always this two-faced before and after?"

“Are you always this sensitive?"

“I want my twinkies back."

“You can’t. They’re ruined. I used them to jack off, thinking about you.” It was true. It was the only way to stop himself from raping someone when Eames was ignoring him.

“You are a twisted little pervert."

“And you sound like a gay villain from one of those Austin Power movies."

“What else don’t I know about you?"

“I'm a quarter Jewish. I'm allergic to shellfish, and I love the Grateful Dead. What else do you want to know about me?"

  ❅

Turns out, quite a lot.

They spend the rest of the night talking, then sucking, then talking some more. Eames is surprised at Arthur's flexibility, and Arthur’s surprised at how much he enjoys talking with him.

In the morning, Perez lets Arthur know he’ll be moving into a cell upstairs. When Arthur gets there, Eames is laying out his blanket on the bed next to his. There are no other cellmates.

In the afternoon Arthur gets a phone call from Mal, with the sound of James crying in the background. 

“Did you get my Christmas present, Arthur?” she asks, the broad smile in her voice travelling all the way to this end of the line.

“You're the best, Mal. I don’t know how to thank you."

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a way.” There was a sound of something crashing to the floor, and a hiss of water boiling. “You’re free when you get out, right?"

Arthur felt goosebumps climbing up his arms. He’d forgotten how practical Mal could be.

“You were always awfully good with the children. I’m thinking of going back to work, you know, when I’m done growing this one in my belly. And Cobb is so hopeless, I don’t trust him to wash a pot.” 

“…I see."

“I’m sure that nice man you are sleeping with can help us out, too. He’s being released 2 months after you are, right?"

Arthur gulped. “I… I think so."

“Wonderful. I’ll put in a word for a little diminution. Wouldn’t you like that, Arthur?” The way she spoke almost made you feel like you had a choice. Cobb used to say that’s how they got married. Arthur hadn’t believed him.

“Uh… Sure. Thanks.” 

“No problem. You are my favourite friend of Cobb’s.” Something spilled in the background. Pippa squealed, and the new labrador they’d got barked and whined.

“I'm going now. Merry Christmas, Arthur."

“Merry Christmas, Mal."

  ❅

Merry Christmas, Cobb, Pippa, and James.

Merry Christmas to Ma and Pa, who still hoped Arthur’d get married to Emily from the diner and out-reproduce the Cobbs. 

Merry Christmas to Ariadne, who would get married a year later and do just that. At least the guy wasn’t a mob boss, after all.

And most of all, merry Christmas to you, Mr Eames, who is about to embark on a new career as the world’s most heavily tattooed manny.

  ❅

Merry Christmas, everyone.

And Shanah tovah.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas!
> 
> My first fic ever, and I mean, ever.  
> So had no one to beta it for me, which might explain everything that doesn't work.  
> But definitely loved writing it, and hope you enjoyed it! :-)))


End file.
